


Miles Fortunae

by prodigy



Category: Rome
Genre: M/M, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-05 12:59:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigy/pseuds/prodigy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Halfway through the meal Vorenus said out of the blue, "Pullo. Why are you and Caesarion still here?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miles Fortunae

**Author's Note:**

> Written for mcicioni in the Yuletide 2008 Challenge.

There was a thread the Parcae had strung on their loom -- probably of yarn or something else nice and hardy and cheap, he reckoned -- and they'd called it _Titus Pullo_. The last one, the old bitch, the cutter, she hadn't even ever looked at it, not once: because when the pretty little one, the spinner, when she spun it out she'd giggled and blown it a little kiss, though it wasn't much to look at. And though the middle one who wasn't so bad-looking herself rolled her eyes, she and her old mumma knew to let it alone. It wasn't so often the spinner giggled when she spun out a thread. Jupiter only knew what she saw in any of them. Jupiter probably didn't know. But when she did, the other two just looked away and wound it out. Because that thread was a lucky one. Didn't matter who he was, didn't matter a fig. Lucky. They left it alone.

That was the story of Titus Pullo, as far as Pullo could imagine it -- because there was no other way could've turned out how he turned out. Of course, he didn't always appreciate it. There were times he was pretty goddamn sure he was on his way out and other times he was pretty sure the gods were smacking his wrists, or decking him right in the nose, or kicking him straight in the balls even. But he was lucky. No son of a freedman joined the Legions who wasn't lucky. No soldier fucked a queen. No condemned man survived the arena. No Roman looked straight into the eye of Augustus Caesar, now, and lied with a grin on his face.

The pretty Parca had blown a kiss to the yarn as she spun it out. Titus Pullo was lucky.

There was another line spun out next to him and he couldn't decide what it was made of. Linen, he thought first, something boring and serviceable like that. Later he thought it was iron. For a bitter day or two after Caesar's death he wondered if it was paper.

It was thread, he decided finally when he thought about it once again, good thread and smooth and fine enough to be the thousandth thread in a Praetor's toga. And it had gold's own color. They had called it _Lucius Vorenus_.

When the pretty Parca looked at it she narrowed her eyes and shook her head and took little care, because she really was the fickle little thing men cursed her for; didn't spit, else the hag would've taken an interest, but didn't like it. So the middle didn't take much care when she was winding it out and it got tangled up with the lucky one.

That was how it must've gone, at least: the rough thread, not much of anything but lucky, and the fine one, who the brat winding it out just decided to up and ignore. That was how he figured it must've gone. It was the only way it could've been fair.

***

Vorenus's fever burned on while Pullo told him that story, but he kept his eyes closed and listened. He even smiled a little, exhausted, when Pullo got to the shade of Vorenus's own thread: "I don't know what you're on about any more, Pullo," he said at the end, but there was a little more color in his voice.

"That's all right," said Pullo. "I was wondering when you'd notice I'd gotten onto nonsense. Fever must be breaking, at least."

Vorenus didn't dignify this with a response, which made Pullo wonder if he was delirious or if he'd regained enough of his strength to be humorless. But he did eventually speak again in a curt voice bitten by an unknown cough that had seen fever and staked out a camp in his throat. "You've seen enough bad luck yourself."

"Have not," he parried with the brightest cheer he could summon. "All the misfortune I've had -- "

He thought of Eirene.

"-- I've brought on my own self. Not you. You're unlucky."

Vorenus didn't have much color to his face these days. Made his hair stand out all the brighter, it did, when he was ashen like that. The physician called it _one foot in the grave_: they didn't pay him enough for gentle words.

To hell with the physician. He was wrong. Pullo had seen Vorenus one foot in the grave before: holding Niobe's body, standing over Niobe's grave, sitting on his bed with Erastes Fulmen's head. Two feet, even, when he was mad enough to call himself the Son of Hades like some kind of deranged fucking gladiator. Back then Pullo half expected Vorenus, the real Vorenus, to wake up and step out of that grave and then up and die of pure shame. He didn't. He stepped out again.

The physician was wrong. Vorenus had a fever, was all.

"Pullo," Vorenus said suddenly. He was back to sounding as pale as he looked. "I'm not unfortunate."

Pullo settled into his chair and didn't immediately understand, preoccupied with how big and awkward he felt in the bedside chair and when the last time was anyone had changed Vorenus's bed-linens. Like some kind of goddamned wet-nurse, he reflected. There was no use asking Vorenus about it -- hell if he'd stand for Pullo nursemaiding him. "What d'you mean?"

"Not unfortunate," repeated his once-commanding officer wearily: "Not any more than you."

"Now I don't know what _you're_ on about," Pullo cut in, though he did and he swallowed down the face he wanted to make, sort of plaintive, a little bit frustrated: _not now, Vorenus, not when I've almost got you happy again, not again. Not now. Not fucking now._

So he interrupted himself, cheerful again. "Say, when's the last time you ate? Shit, where is Vorena? Probably run off again to look around this place: I'll find her, you can give her a couple whacks on the bottom; she isn't too old for that, is she?"

***

That night he prayed for Vorenus's life, but instead of making a sacrifice -- he didn't have the money for a sacrifice of anything near comparable value to Lucius Vorenus -- he closed his eyes, his forehead close to the dusty farmhouse floor, and he thought up an image. The threads again.

_Decima_, he beseeched the second Parca, the one who he'd named not-half-bad, _Decima, lady, I know I've slandered you enough in the past: but Lucius Vorenus hasn't, and I promise you he's a godly man. Now I don't know what grudge you've got against him, and I won't make any accusations: but I'll say his prayers would go a lot better if he said them himself, all right? A lot better. He's never given you gods any trouble._

But he hasn't got enough care to pray for his own life now. Barely ever did. Stubborn son of a bitch.

So he's stuck with me.

You answer me because he deserves it, all right? Measure him out another handspan. Measure him out some more. Forget who's asking. Just don't take him now. Not now.

For Lady Decima's benefit he pretended it wasn't a selfish prayer: that it was for Vorenus, honorable, and not for Pullo, faithless. That was a lie, of course. But he'd always been a good enough liar. He fooled little Octavian himself on his Imperator's seat and little Octavian had eyes that reached into a man's and dragged out the truth. It was selfish, all right: because what he'd said was _don't take him_, and what he'd meant was, _from me_. But there was no reason the goddess should know that.

***

It was only a matter of time before someone bitched about how he'd picked up his life and re-ordered it around Vorenus again, and it turned out to be Caesarion. That figured. He was a spoiled kid, rightly speaking. Vorenus didn't like him. Pullo might not've liked him too but for the necessary fact of liking him. He wasn't a bad kid or anything. Just: well, what could Pullo judge anyhow, he'd never gone from Egyptian Heavenly Prince of the Sky Divine Majesty and Imperial Splendor to Titus Pullo's by-blow. Maybe he'd piss and moan just as loud.

He had it about up to here with him anyway. "Legionary Pullo," Caesarion addressed him, as he still couldn't lower himself to _Father_, "I believe there are more advantageous locations than this one."

Not a surprise. Caesarion hadn't taken to Rome, but he might've taken to it a lot better than Ariminum. "Not a lot where we could find land, Caesarion," Pullo answered him over his food. "Not so bad here. What is it you don't like?"

Caesarion lifted his dusky chin. "I don't have to answer that," he said coolly.

"You don't," Pullo agreed, and made as if to take his plate to the kitchen.

"Legionary Pullo!" The boy called him again sharply, but there wasn't anything really angry in it: just desperate, too proud to be desperate, sharp instead. A bit like Eirene. "Is there nowhere else in Italy to hide?"

"You don't know Augustus Caesar," said Pullo quietly.

"I suppose I don't," said Caesarion, his chin hitched high again, and the accusation was plain on his face: _It's not Augustus Caesar keeping us in Ariminum. It's Lucius Vorenus._

Pullo stopped in the doorway. There was too much Caesarion didn't know about, he decided, weary. Too much he did, too. "Go and play with little Vorena," he said.

Caesarion glared. "Vorena's a girl."

"Lucius, then. He's your age."

"Lucius never talks," his son complained, "and he's got no smile, and I don't think he likes me."

"Then make yourself busy somehow; Jupiter, boy, I don't have time for this. We're not leaving Ariminum until I say so, and not a moment before."

***

In fact, it was busyness that spared them from Augustus Caesar, the way Pullo saw it. Augustus, Octavian, he'd always been attentive; he always had some idea of things before anyone else did, sharp eyes, a quick mind. Now he had Rome. Pullo didn't imagine he was dulled any. He'd always taken an interest in the little people, too, remembered to ask after Pullo's and Vorenus's lives; Pullo'd figured it mercy once, before he had a better idea of little Octavian's character, but now he knew it was just being thorough. Spider at the center of a web, was little Octavian.

He was a great man now. They lived in his shadow. Survived in his shadow, even. It was only that he'd grown to a statue's height that he didn't remember to check on loyal old Titus Pullo any more, good old Titus Pullo who'd always served him well, not even a benevolent question or two. Greatness was a busy business.

Pullo wondered how busy; as long as they were in Augustus's shadow, they were in his reach. It wasn't Vorenus he'd wonder about, it was Pullo. Then all it took was one god-forsaken wondering for him to gesture and send out someone to find something out, and then they were all done.

Caesarion was right. There were safer corners of the Empire, but not ones Vorenus could convalesce on his way to.

They stayed in Ariminum. Pullo was quiet when he went to market with Vorena, terse when he haggled, and neither of them ever said their names.

***

Sure as anything, Decima took pity on Pullo. Vorenus was better within the week, almost walking. Unfortunately he was well enough to be stubborn again, and the very same idea seemed to occur to him at the absolutely worst fucking time Pullo could think of.

They all ate together in the house: Pullo, Caesarion, the girls and Lucius. Now Vorenus too. The girls made the food. They didn't keep any slaves, not any more. Pullo told Vorena and Caesarion it was money, but it wasn't money, of course. Slaves had ears, mouths too. Long as Caesarion didn't know the danger of the one and didn't know how to keep the other shut, the girls would keep on making supper.

The day Vorenus grunted out, "I'll be having dinner with the rest of you," Pullo nearly went crosseyed smiling stupid.

There were things he thought of saying, but what came out was, with a grin, "You sure you've got the strength?"

"What's Vorena cooking tonight?"

"I don't know, it's a long distance from your bed to the table --"

Vorenus rolled his eyes so far he might've been looking up Minerva's skirt. "I can walk on my own."

Pullo didn't trust him to, though, and maybe some part of Vorenus that wasn't so iron-set on self-sufficiency didn't trust himself either, since when he got up Pullo slung one of Vorenus's arms around his shoulders and Vorenus accepted it without protest, just a hard look he shot him. Pullo grinned and let the look bounce off, like he would. Vorenus was walking. The Parcae were smitten with him.

\-- or maybe toying with him, as halfway through the meal Vorenus said out of the blue, "Pullo. Why are you and Caesarion still here?"

Around the table there was a lot of quiet, like the kids all knew when they were meant to shut up and listen; better that they didn't, Pullo thought, if they were stupid enough to clamor on and ask stupid questions. Then they'd be distracted and wouldn't be listening. Vorenus's face wasn't such a glad sight at the table now: no, it was. His voice, though, his voice could go for the moment. To hell with Vorenus's Roman honesty. Wasn't so bad he was honest, just that he had to be right now, right away when he thought of it -- which Pullo supposed was what honesty was, and he wouldn't be Vorenus without it.

Still didn't improve the dinner any. Pullo made a face of bafflement and vague thought. "We like the weather. Lots of room. Caesarion could do with learning what honest work is, and _I'm_ not anyone to teach him. I don't know, I can't say I've thought about it much."

"I like the ocean," said Caesarion, boldly. Little shit.

Vorena traded a glance with her brother while Vorenus stared flatly at Pullo. "Is there anything keeping you here?"

There just wasn't any good bullshit Pullo could think of for that. So he said, with some of the resignation of a man laying down a weapon where the blade had just fallen off, "Seems like the best idea all around."

***

"You won't be staying, Pullo. You're a fool to think he won't find you."

They argued only behind a doorway in Vorenus's own bedroom where the children could hear but not see them. Some kind of gesture to Vorenus's propriety: Vorenus's fucking propriety again. They didn't have the space to be proper.

"Pullo! Do you hear me?" Vorenus never bothered to lower his voice any when he was irritated, either. "I am this house's master and I'll not let you stay a moment longer that puts that boy's life in danger. You'll find passage to Greece and you'll go with him. There's nothing more to it."

"And what of you?" Pullo asked rather more mildly, though he had some idea of the answer.

Vorenus hesitated. "Once I'm in -- stronger health and the property's in the finer shape it deserves, I'll consider that." He sounded like he was talking through his teeth. "It's not a concern at the moment. I won't have you put your son's life at risk."

"I don't think so, brother," said Pullo, quiet again.

"I know what you think," Vorenus snapped.

The shot told. Pullo glanced down. "That might be true," he said, even as he could, "but at the moment the house's master's a little out of sorts, and I'm standing in for him until he gets better."

"_Pullo_ \-- " Vorenus took a warning step forward, but he was shaky on his feet. Pullo reached out and steadied him, not thinking; then winced as he saw Vorenus's expression. Bad idea, all, worst thing to do when Lucius Vorenus was angry was to make him think he was being pandered to, or worse, patronized. He half expected Vorenus to throw a punch, which he'd have to catch or take; and then the stubborn ass would fall over and probably open his wound up again and he'd have to deal with that.

But he didn't do any of that, just stared up at Pullo, grim and contained. "He is your son. And were he not, he was Mark Antony's ward and I --" Something troubled him about this and he changed tack swiftly. "I was ordered to keep him alive. So he is. It's him Caesar wishes dead, not I."

"And you don't think things would be just a tad simpler for sweet little Octavian," Pullo shot back, damn near exhausted of this conversation, "if you were both dead? Think he'd rest his pretty little arse a pretty little easier if it wasn't just Caesarion in the grave, but anyone heard it was Augustus Caesar gave the order?""

"_You_ know," Vorenus answered, but his mouth thinned: he knew.

They knew. A spider on his web, little Octavian. He'd sent Titus Pullo to kill Caesarion because he knew Pullo'd done worse. But not Lucius Vorenus, the Catonian, the prig with the stick permanently shoved in his arse, the last honorable fucking man left in Italy: not Lucius Vorenus. If Caesarion was dead, so was Vorenus. If Vorenus lived he wouldn't have stood for the murder; so if he lived, Pullo was a liar, Caesarion alive, and all three of them traitors.

"Brother," Pullo said as gentle as he could manage, "as soon as you're up and well we can see how much this land goes for, how does that sound?"

It was just a sick man that stood between Pullo, Caesarion and flight, Pullo thought: funny enough how things turned out. He looked to Vorenus. There was nothing funny there. It weighed heavy on Vorenus; Pullo could tell by how he'd grit his teeth, stared, like another man might be on the verge of rage. But that wasn't rage for Vorenus. That was -- was it despair? Guilt? Some kind of fear? No obstinate old thing like Vorenus painted things like that on his sleeves. Instead everything was some kind of anger, studious Roman anger. He knew him better than that.

***

Sometimes when he stepped out to get some air he wondered idly about just picking up and running, right there, leaving Vorenus's pride and Vorena's temper and Caesarion's disdain to Vorenus, Vorena and Caesarion, see what they could do with it. What an idea that was: him halfway somewhere warmer by now, with all the wine, company and cunny he'd been missing. Ariminum's climate was wearing soil into his feet. The lines of his skin were brown now, dirt worked in as he, Vorena and young Lucius tried to make the land yield. Years ago he'd never have considered it.

Years ago he might've already been on his way out, and stolen from the fields as he went by, too. Years ago. Sure as Hades wasn't years ago any more: he stepped outside and let the mud squelch into his feet again and wondered how long the unseen chain was that might as well have held him to the doorpost. He wondered how far he'd get. Not far at all. Somewhere the goddess Nona saw how tangled up her favorite yarn had gotten with some yellow thread and clucked her pink tongue, disappointed. Well, fuck her.

It started to rain. Rain in this part of Italy was heavy and it had a musk when it came, like the houses in worse parts of Rome, a little too pushy but a little familiar anyway. A man knew that kind of rain.

Pullo waited for the children to go to sleep before he did. They had just enough room for all of them, the girls in one room, the boys in another, and then him and Vorenus. He didn't sleep too well in Vorenus's bedroom. He'd slept on his steps too long, or on the ground on the march next to him, or passed out on the street, so it just didn't seem right to be on a pallet on his floor.

He'd seen him often enough, of course, and close, and heard him breathe. But now they weren't tired like soldiers always were. No Thirteenth to work them to the bone.

Vorenus slept quick, sick like he was, but Pullo didn't. He was uncomfortable, aware like he was of Vorenus's breathing. Not that there was anything wrong with listening to that -- now and then coughs took advantage of his state and his breathing was off and Pullo knew to watch for a fever, despite whatever Vorenus said, and send for the physician if his voice was too wet and to Hades with whatever the fuck Vorenus had to say about it. But he was aware of how he breathed when he was healthy, too, and when he was just falling asleep. And how much light was in the room. Aware of how much he was aware, too. He could do with being less aware, altogether.

With his head on the hard pillow and his face shining a little with sweat, Vorenus slept uneasy. Pullo watched him a while.

When he slept too uneasy and Pullo thought it was Niobe he must be dreaming of, he was on his feet suddenly, sitting up in the chair, with a hand on Vorenus's shoulder; "Vorenus, brother," he said at first, worrying the other man would stir himself into splitting the wound again, and then louder, "_Vorenus_."

He didn't wake. Whatever Morpheus had in store for Lucius Vorenus, the dream-god held onto him with greedy fingers. He looked gaunt again in this light, half the dead man who'd been charged with the Aventine.

Pullo frowned. He reached out, feeling a bit of a fool, and folded Vorenus's hand in his own ungainly one. What an accursed ridiculous thing to do. He expected Vorenus to wake up any moment now, see it, invigorate himself with irritation and gift him with a healthy _Pullo, what in Jupiter's name are you doing?_ He didn't. Everyone's hand was smaller than Titus Pullo's, Pullo thought, but Vorenus's not by much: but just as rough, if not as many scars. And not as if he hadn't seen Vorenus's hands enough either. They'd brawled -- had been a tad too preoccupied to be observing much then, naturally, but, still.

"Don't get into any trouble," he said to Vorenus and it sounded like he was talking to himself, a lonely old fool, "not when you're asleep -- don't go and be a stubborn fool where I can't see. I've got a hold on you now, but I'd hate to have to drag you out again."

Him telling Magistrate Vorenus not to get into trouble now. Fortuna was a moody old bitch.

Vorenus woke up. Far from dropping his hand like it was a rat or launching into _what in Jupiter's name_, he closed his eyes again and then opened them and tilted his head enough to look at Pullo; Pullo, who'd never been a man for panic, just looked nonplussed.

Finally he said in a voice like a wheel that hadn't been oiled, "Am I dying?" And he cracked something like a grin, at that.

That was, well, that was something. "Not last I checked. Have you got some kind of information I haven't?" Pullo broke into a big old grin in return and stretched out his other hand to mock-press it to Vorenus's forehead: but somehow that jest didn't come so quick now.

He looked down at their hands, then back up at Vorenus, who didn't look troubled still. Shit, he had to be fevered. "Maybe you _are_ dying," Pullo reasoned haplessly and checked his forehead genuinely this time. Some heat.

Vorenus responded by dragging himself to sit up by his elbows, however late it was; though he walked on his feet now, going from lying to sitting, from sitting to standing, was still an obvious labor for him, one that put him in pain. Pullo and Vorena would watch him set himself to getting out of bed like he was struggling tangled up in ropes they couldn't see. They always wanted to help him, and badly -- or Pullo did, and from the way Vorena grit her teeth she did too -- but he wouldn't have it, he knew before he asked, so he never did. Just watched a little helplessly as it went on. Tonight Vorenus didn't have as much trouble, but he settled back and closed his eyes.

"Pullo," he said, sounding half back to sleep again, "how is it you started acting like my mother?"

"Did your mother put up with you this much? I should be envious," Pullo remarked, still looking at both of their hands. Vorenus's still hadn't moved. Everything else just heaped on absurdity. "Mine would've left me back in the Aventine."

Vorenus closed his eyes and was still and quiet for long enough that Pullo wondered if he wasn't just back to sleep and if he himself shouldn't just figure some way to gingerly push him back down so he'd rest like he should. But he ended that line of thought soon by speaking again: "Your mother's a fool, then."

He stared at Vorenus. "What?"

"Your mother," Vorenus repeated. His grip tightened a little on Pullo's hand. "She would've been a fool."

That was the last he said anything, or Pullo either, while they sat there. Eventually Vorenus must've gone to sleep, because he was asleep again later and Pullo was left to sit back down on his own pallet: but he wasn't really sure where events had gone from there. He did sleep eventually, though not a whole lot, and all he remembered of that when he woke up was what he'd been thinking: Nona had blown him a kiss. Titus Pullo was lucky.

***

Pullo dreamed about Eirene that night, back when she was pretty and happy and having a baby and he thought he'd have another son. Or daughter, even. Juno could've sent him whatever she pleased and he would've liked it: Titus Pullo the Younger. Lucius Pullo. Pulla. It didn't matter, he was too happy to let it matter, then.

He woke up wondering that it hadn't turned sour by the end -- it was a long time since a dream about the past had let him alone. He didn't question why.

***

He dreamed about Vorenus too and that didn't turn sour either. _You can't keep your damned mouth shut for a moment, can you_, Vorenus was chiding him while they worked, strong and healthy again, but he was grinning -- grinning enough for Pullo to grin back and say, _not especially, but it'd be a right fucking funeral around here if I did, now, wouldn't it?_ And Vorenus laughed a real laugh. Then they were eating at the table, best food Vorena had ever made; and then soldiers in the desert again, Caesarion safe somewhere else, no Cleopatra to guard, no one chasing them. Just alone again and walking. Vorenus was grim, like he would be, but happy too: alert, on watch, doing the only thing he felt at home with. Pullo too. But this desert didn't have any real enemies, no one who could stab Vorenus and leave him with a fever that sat Pullo next to him every night. No Caesar chasing anyone. Just the two of them, soldiers.

In the dream they bedded down next to each other, where the desert wasn't so cold, and Pullo wrapped his arm around him -- no, that wasn't right. No, he did: wrapped his arm around him and kissed him and smiled like an idiot, the gods' own idiot.

He woke up to the sound of Italian rain again and tried to fall back asleep, but there was no doing that. The roof leaked, too. He shielded his face with the blanket and sat up, tired. He was disturbed. He didn't question that, either.

***

Vorenus's health improved. His temper didn't. Something had gotten into him, at least when it came to Pullo. He snapped at everything like a dog that'd been chained and left, even shadows and jokes: Pullo's shadows and jokes, that was, Vorena and her father were getting on unusually well and Little Vorena and Lucius had struck up some kind of compact against Caesarion. Caesarion sulked.

Funny enough, Pullo felt a kinship with Caesarion on that. There was some kind of company in being shut out and griped at by all the others for some unknown reason. Unknown reason in Pullo's case -- Vorena was curious too, though, shot him looks whenever he made a quip and Vorenus cut it out of the air with something harsh -- but not so unknown for Caesarion, who was starting to make some kind of art out of being dislikeable.

Then again, maybe it was to him. Pullo supposed no one'd act like the Royal Brat if he had any idea what he was doing: or any idea how else to act. It was what kept the lid on his patience for Caesarion. Not that he had trouble with it otherwise.

He distracted himself working and haggling with the country doctor over what they owed him for Vorenus's recovery; he wasn't such a good negotiator, really, and was about to start negotiating the good old-fashioned way when Vorena rolled her eyes and took over for him. Bright girl, that one. Didn't have any bullshit in her. Didn't remind him a lick of Niobe, but that was better for Vorenus, wasn't it?

Then Caesarion had to go and get the runs over something Little Vorena cooked; "It's not my fault if his royal belly isn't used to commoners' food," Pullo overheard her saying to her sister, "unless he wants to provide me some fat geese and hogs and an apple to stuff in his mouth, he can eat like a Roman!"

"Hush," her elder sister reprimanded, but not very severely. Vorenus was stern about any bullying of Caesarion, so it wasn't what they showed, exactly. He was stern to Caesarion too, and Pullo wasn't sure Caesarion saw any difference between that and the bullying. Sometimes it was difficult -- if you didn't know Vorenus. Just if you didn't know Vorenus, was all.

Some days before he'd seen Caesarion sit on a windowsill and pull his skinny knees up to his chest, watch the sun set. He wasn't paying attention when anyone called his name. He was imagining where something else was. Egypt, maybe. Greece. Guilt nipped at Pullo's chest.

"Go and see what in the gods' name is the matter with your son," Vorenus said to him once passing by, brisk: "He's still shut up back there looking like someone poisoned him."

"He's sick," Pullo defended the boy, feeling one of the first bites of irritation. "Leave him be."

"Then get him the doctor, if he really is -- and if it isn't a matter for the doctor then it isn't a matter that should keep him from working, either. Isn't getting his share of Vorena's food until he does." Vorenus snorted. "He should be glad, if it's so low for him as that --"

"Vorenus, have a bit of heart for the lad. He's just plucked from the Pharaoh's own table. Is that so bloody difficult for you to understand?" There wasn't much of a challenge in his own words, Pullo realized; he was irritated, but he just sounded tired. Nagging, almost. Making it all too easy to Vorenus to dismiss him, almost by design: what _had_ happened to Titus Pullo? Pullo punched a commanding officer once, he remembered, right in the face when he deserved it. Told Triton to suck his cock when he was on a ship in a storm. Now here he was telling Vorenus to be kinder like some kind of fishwife.

He wasn't going so easy on him because of his illness, that was for certain. That was never Pullo's way. Vorenus would've hit him already if he did, anyway, and he would've deserved it. That wasn't it, it was -- there was some kind of line he had to be careful of, now.

As for why Vorenus was such an irritable old bastard, the gods only knew. The gods only knew about Vorenus sometimes.

***

When Caesarion was still sick within a week Pullo and Vorenus argued again in their room. Again with the room. That was Vorenus.

"I don't care if he's shitting the contents of his liver," Vorenus snapped at him, paler and more wan than he'd been in a while; Pullo noticed, but wasn't in a mood to think about it. "If he's not up the same time everyone else is tomorrow morning then I'm throwing him out of my house with my own hands."

"I'm sorry," Pullo returned, the lid on his own temper now thoroughly dashed to pieces, "when you said you'd take him in I didn't realize it was _unless he got some fucking indigestion._ You're telling me nothing ever disagreed with you in your life? You think you were the slightest fucking bit of use when you were laid up in that bed?"

"_Pullo_ \--" Vorenus was staring at him with the horrible blue-eyed intensity that said he was angry, really angry: there was something off about that anger, too, but Pullo didn't care.

"What? What was that? Was that something about being the master of your own house again? Because I don't remember you doing a single thing when we got here," Pullo took a deep breath and wondered, briefly, if all fathers lost their tempers when it came to their own sons, "and I'll beg your ever-blessed pardon, Magistrate, but if it weren't for me you'd be dead in Rome. Or Egypt, if Octavian-fucking-Caesar hadn't seen fit to send sentimental old Pullo to kill you and the boy. You'd be bloody _amazed_ at what happens to you in all the places where I'm not."

Vorenus smiled at that, which was the horrible thing: it was a fucking horrible smile, too, pleased with himself, like the one he got when he said Fulmen's head gave him a little peace. "Would I?"

That didn't make any sense. Pullo blinked, a little deflated. "Yeah, you would."

The former First Spear's voice was very sharp and deliberate this time -- not like he was usually angry, but Pullo was starting to seriously fucking mistrust his usual impressions of Vorenus at the moment, as apparently they were leading him to tolerate this much of his company. He closed his eyes and wondered why it hadn't even occurred to him to hit him. Fucking useless.

"I'll tell you this, Pullo: the day I need a useless old lecher who can't get off his lazy arse and a snot-nosed brat who can't bear commoner's clothes on his is the day I am walking straight into fucking Hades and building my new house there. I'm glad I had you for a nurse. Could've gotten some blind old hag to do the same thing. So if you think what you're doing is a waste of your time -- go ahead! Find a better use for it! Able man like you should be able to do better than being a dead man's footman, wouldn't you think?"

"Vorenus --" Pullo started, and he didn't even have anything angry to say --

"Find someone who likes you better and take your fucking whelp and leave. Maybe I'll get some peace out of it."

Now Pullo raised his hand to hit him, but he stopped when he looked at Vorenus again: sure as fucking anything, he was mystifying again, he looked white as flour now and just as discolored as he'd been before they ever got some kind of leech to look at him -- it didn't make sense. Didn't make any kind of sense. That was the problem with Lucius Vorenus; even when the bastard up and handed Pullo everything he needed to hate him finally, leave him to his unhappiness and his miser's habits and his daughters' bitching, he had to go and not make sense.

He didn't hate him, he realized with a measure of resignation. Wasn't ever going to hate him. Probably wasn't going to hit him, either.

"Get out of my room," Vorenus said. "I want some kind of goddamned quiet for a night."

Pullo did and went out onto the farm and brought his fist hard into one of the outside walls. It left a mark. His hand bled. He was fucking lost.

***

The next morning Pullo woke up early in the kitchen and didn't look in on Vorenus first thing. Wouldn't have looked in on him at all, the fact was, except that he was late. These days Vorenus could get up early he did get up early, just to show that he could. Now he slept in. Pullo was of half a mind to leave the lunatic old son of a bitch to his sleep but something prevented him; didn't give a piss what that something was, either, just thought _Titus, you fucking old fool_ when he ducked in and waited for his tirade.

Vorenus didn't stir. Feeling his gut shrink, Pullo laid a hand on his forehead. His hand burned.

"Vorena? Vorena, where in Hades is -- Vorena, get over here!"

***

He sat by him until the doctor could be fetched again: pulled away from his current patient -- a rich old Eques with gout -- only irritably and after a bribe. They sent Lucius for this task. Vorena was soaking rags in water; Caesarion and Little Vorena crowded around the door of the room, staring.

"Give him some room," Pullo snapped and they scattered again.

***

Late into the night he sat, just as puzzled and frustrated as the doctor had been -- _"he'd been recovering so fast, I would've set him to riding soon!"_ \-- and not even thinking about what they'd been saying, just about the fever, while he dabbed uselessly at the other centurion's face with one of Vorena's rags and was sure he'd never felt so enraged not to understand something.

"Vorenus," he was saying, very quiet, and didn't even know or wonder if it was aloud because he was too busy marveling, altogether, at what a stubborn son of a bitch Lucius Vorenus could find it in him to be: "you idiot, you stupid arsehole, you fucking idiot. You -- I can't believe how fucking stupid you are. You stubborn old son of a bitch. Fuck you. You're a fucking idiot, Vorenus, answer me -- answer me, what the fuck are you doing? Vorenus!"

Pullo slumped in his chair.

***

Half-asleep, sprawled in the chair next to Vorenus's bedside, Pullo remembered.

On the march once they'd been talking, back-and-forth, spar-and-parry, like they did, and it had somehow ended up with his joke, _I'm a godly man, sir. Could've been a priest if I hadn't been so damn good with the soldiering. For all you know I'm a god on earth._

_Bacchus on earth, maybe,_ Vorenus had snorted. _If there's any holiness in you it's in drinking, squandering your money and getting into trouble. There's no room for it elsewhere._

_Praise the gods_, said Pullo, grinning.

_You are something else, aren't you? -- sometimes I wonder if it's what they put you on this earth to do, Pullo._

Vorenus had been wrong. The gods hadn't put Titus Pullo on this blasted earth to drink, squander his money or get into trouble -- or brawl, or fuck, or kill men in good cheer, or make an ass of himself in front of anyone he loved, or have the most benighted luck Fortuna had ever given out, none of those things he was so good at. He was put on earth for something he was better at. He was put on earth for following. He'd dogged Lucius Vorenus's bullheaded steps for longer than he could remember, now, and none of it was easy; least of all now, and at times like now, when he wasn't sure if Vorenus was dying, was already dead. Once Hades had dragged Pullo to its doorstep. Once Vorenus had dragged him back. And now it had its hands on Vorenus, too, twice, three times he'd been pulled almost into the kingdom -- two or three times, Pullo had followed him there, and here he was again.

Pullo followed. It was what he did. He followed Vorenus everywhere, fucking _everywhere_, and he hadn't understood why it never seemed to matter for shit. It mattered to Vorenus. But it didn't matter _with_ Vorenus; Pullo followed him all the way to the gates of Tartarus, he knew he had.

He would've done more -- he would've -- he would -- what use was it? Vorenus was willful like no one he'd ever known. So long as he set himself to throwing himself back into Hades' jaws, he'd do it: for whatever fool reason, grief, honor, courage, now Pullo and Caesarion's safety.

Son of Hades, was Lucius Vorenus: ha, not so ridiculous now, but apt. Not a monster risen up from it but a man who drove himself there over and over because he never knew any other fucking way.

And two or three times Titus Pullo had followed him there. And here he was again. It wasn't a follower that Lucius Vorenus needed.

Half-asleep, he took Vorenus's hand again and waited for him to wake up.

***

Vorenus wasn't actually asleep that long -- just for the most of the rest of that night. He'd had a longer fever before; he'd just been delirious the whole time, fever-dreams, and now it was just sleep so all Pullo had to punctuate the time was wondering how long it'd been.

He, on the other hand, he never fell quite asleep: though he thought he had, because there were times when the whole house was warm and quiet and peaceable as a lullaby, and he thought this was a cruel dream they were giving him this time. But he wasn't asleep because it didn't wake him up when Vorenus woke up, just plucked him out of his peace.

Their hands were still together. Pullo was too tired and not in a mood to change that: maybe that was how raving madness felt, in early stages.

"Pullo," Vorenus began with a dry throat and his eyes only half-open. "You're still here."

"Like cockroaches," Pullo agreed, raising his eyebrows.

Vorenus made a face of displeasure, but not anger; Pullo would've put the new lucidity and calm down to more fever, but he sounded clear, at the helm of his own thoughts as much as he always was. "Can a man find a single way under heaven to get rid of you?"

"Not if he's you," said Pullo in an even voice.

He pressed the back of his hand to Vorenus's face again. Sweat, but the heat had broken.

Vorenus's voice was a little halting when he spoke again: "You wouldn't have gone if I told you to -- I did tell you to, you know. You're as good as a mule."

"So speaks Lucius Vorenus," Pullo countered and pulled himself a little closer, grinning now; he felt a little victorious. Over the fever, maybe. But not just. "Vorenus, you've got to remember this: we aren't in the Thirteenth any more, brother. I don't have to stand for it when you're being a fucking idiot."

In response his friend turned his face away and Pullo wondered if it was shame that turned his expression to stone now. No, not stone, really, maybe something sharper-edged and clearer, like silver or glass. Anyway, it wasn't anger, and Pullo was well enough accustomed to Vorenus now that he expected nearly every sorrow to sour to anger on Vorenus's face, if not in his mind. It wasn't necessarily anger at anyone else that Vorenus would change it to. In his life Pullo had always been surprised to discover it about Vorenus -- that he'd never met anyone with such a bloody great ability to hate himself as Lucius Vorenus. But that wasn't hate he had now. Maybe guilt.

"I --" Vorenus began. He didn't shut his eyes, at least, too often now he'd done that to run away, so that Pullo was on the verge of shaking him if he ever did it again. He didn't look back at Pullo, either. "I never wanted unkindness for you. Or Caesarion. I am -- I wouldn't have liked to have hurt the boy."

Pullo stifled the ever-ready urge he had to crack a joke and smile, laugh it off, pretend it was nothing. He wasn't impatient, either. He'd never felt as patient. But he stared back at Vorenus, level, like he meant to say, _go on._

"I'm sorry," said Vorenus suddenly. "It was not my decision to make. Not for you."

Still he looked at him -- but not even because he expected anything, now, because he was just curious, he'd never done this before. He wanted to know what Vorenus would say.

"Pullo --" This was straining Vorenus now, he could tell. "Why do you do this?"

"You know," Pullo was surprised to hear his voice came out a little halting itself, "you know, if you still have to ask that question, if you still have to ask it -- if it's not just you being a stubborn old ass again," he smiled and Vorenus returned it, which was a great puzzle to him, "then I'm giving up on you. Right now. Done. Titus Pullo and Lucius Vorenus are finally over with. I'm not joking! Done."

What had to be the hesitant beginning of a grin showed itself on Vorenus's face. "Perhaps I should repeat the question, then."

"Oh, go _right_ ahead."

"Why do you --"

Pullo kissed him, leaned down and just did it while he clasped both of their hands to his chest a little stupidly, like a child with some kind of doll he didn't want to lose.

***

In that dream of his he hadn't really dwelled on what it was like to kiss a man; not at all like kissing a woman, he thought now, and actually that was mainly because Vorenus sat there frozen for a while. But then he didn't; he still didn't seem all that sure, but when Pullo decided to stop and see if he really did want to do any of this Vorenus just took a handful of his shirt and prevented him -- shit, he wasn't _that_ fever-weak. He might not have been sure, but unsure wasn't the same as unwilling, or undecided; Pullo didn't think of anything for a while there until Vorenus did finally let him go. More than a little short of breath, both of them.

And then he just stared at him in a bit of awe and said, "Shit, Vorenus," and then started laughing into his mouth when they kissed again.

***

There was a thread the Parcae had strung on their loom and its name was Titus Pullo; and the one of them made it lucky, oh yes, luckier than any fool son of a bitch deserved to be.

Fuck the Parcae's threads. There was a man that wound up on the earth somehow or other and he was called Titus Pullo. The gods put him there for some kind of reason. No one yet had quite figured out what that was.

There was another man, named Lucius Vorenus -- the gods definitely put him there out of some kind of kindness, because a lot of things were better off with him around. Kindness to who, Pullo couldn't really say. Maybe the Republic, back when it still had something to say for itself. Maybe Rome. Maybe more than that, if Jupiter ever looked any further sometimes. But at least a scrap of it was to Titus Pullo.

"Caesarion's feeling better," Pullo informed Vorenus when they ate their first meal in the day, sometimes grinning at each other like they'd just successfully murdered someone and no one had found out; Vorena looked a little baffled. "Checked on him earlier. Might be up to joining the world of the living."

"Good. We'll try Vorena's roast lamb on him next," Vorenus countered, smiling.

He tried to insist on going out into the fields with them, too, but Pullo stopped him without much trouble: "I'm just leaving you with the doctor for company the next time you collapse," he warned him. "You won't see a hair of me. Oh, I see how you're looking, you're going to say you'd never be so fortunate -- just the doctor, I'm telling you."

And then, more quiet, when the children weren't listening: "It shouldn't be long. There's no escaping me for long." He ruffled Vorenus's hair. "I'll be back before you know it, you know."

And he was.

**Author's Note:**

> With great thanks to Relia, Cori C., Tami M., Meg, and themis, for all their help, revisions, suggestions and moral support, without which I'd still be staring at an empty text file.


End file.
